


Confessions

by celiye



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Discussion Of Murder, M/M, also possibly mention of a panic attack, but really it's just super fluffy fluff, well it is htgawm fandom, with cuddles and hot cocoa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-26
Updated: 2015-07-26
Packaged: 2018-04-11 09:08:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4429556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celiye/pseuds/celiye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Let the rain kiss you. Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops. Let the rain sing you a lullaby." - Langston Hughes. Struck by guilt after the discovery of Sam Keating's body, Connor finds himself in front of Oliver's door again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Confessions

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my lovely bestie for the beta and listening to me complain at odd hours of the day. And of course, thanks to the lovely mods of the Slashorific fest on LJ for hosting the challenge and providing amazing prompts! :)

"They've found Sam Keating's body," Laurel had said at their damage control meeting last night, "There's nothing but circumstantial evidence tying us to the scene, so act normal, and we'll get through this." 

But at the moment, Connor finds his mind stuck looping worst-case scenarios, and normality is like an ill-fitting coat that doesn't settle over his shoulders quite right. Those images keep rattling around in Connor's head, whispering in the back of his mind as he sorts through the files covering his desk.

"They've found the body," a treacherous voice in the back of his mind whispers. "How long before they match the DNA from the crime scene to the blood and tissue samples all over your car, Connor?"

"Shut up," he says, but the voice doesn't relent.

"Soon, there will be reporters and police swarming the Keating house. That many people - someone's bound to notice something, and then, well, you get to spend the rest of your life rotting in jail. Your family would be so proud."

The pencil in Connor's hand snaps in half and out of the corner of his eye, he can see Wes shooting him concerned glances from across the room. He tosses the remains of the unfortunate pencil in the trash, takes a deep breath, and counts to three. When he exhales, he tries to let out all of his fear and anxiety with it, like they taught at that meditation class his sister dragged him too. And if he staples the next packet a little too viciously, well, he was always terrible at meditation.

Breathing exercises aside, Connor's nerves are fraying by the minute, stretching thinner and thinner, and he feels as if he would snap at the slightest touch. He fumbles with the papers on his desk, sending his container of pens clattering to the floor. As he leans down to pick it up for what feels like the tenth time today, he can see Michaela shooting him a glare from her perch on the couch.

The next time he gets up to snag a book from the shelf across the room, she corners him. She sidles up next to him, pretending to inspect a stack. "Get a grip, Connor," she hisses. "Do you want us to get caught?"

"Unlike you, I would be terrifying in prison," Connor says, with a confidence he doesn't quite feel.

Michaela sees right through him, though, because she rolls her eyes as she pulls a book out. "Just get it together," she says, as if she's one to talk. With that final jab, she turns on her heel, her skirt swishing against her legs, and stalks back to her desk. 

But really, Connor must look terrible - like death warmed over, he might say, if it wasn't so terribly apropos - because Annalise actually stops at his desk. "Take the rest of the day off, go home," she says, as her eyes rake over him, missing nothing from his hair (a mess from his fingers raking through it all day) to his shirt (wrinked, buttons askew). 

He starts to protest, but she cuts him off. "You're no use to me like this," she says, her tone leaving no room for argument. "I expect you back here bright and early tomorrow morning, ready to work, you understand?"

Connor nods mutely, gathers up his jacket, and slips outside into the biting wind. There are a few reporters outside, scrounging for news about their current case, but nowhere near as many as there will be in a few days. One of them starts walking towards him, but Connor pulls his coat tighter around himself, trying to look as unimportant as possible, and walks a little faster.

He finds himself reluctant to return to his apartment, where it would be oppressively silent with only the feeling of the walls closing in on him. So he walks, one foot after another, pushing past a group of giggling college students, harried businessmen, and the occasional lost tourist. It's overcast, the sky covered in gray, gloomy clouds in a way that threatens an impending rainstorm, but Connor is already two blocks away from the office and would rather try his luck than turn back. He walks and he walks until he finds himself standing in front of a very familiar door, the silver numbers glinting at him in the brightly lit hallway.

Hesitantly, he knocks twice. The noise echoes. He can hear Oliver moving inside, until the door swings open under his hand. "Oh, Connor," Oliver says, "I didn't know you were coming over."

Suddenly, Connor feels as if he's made a huge mistake. "I just -" he stammers. "I don't know how I got here. Maybe I should leave."

But Oliver reaches out just as Connor turns to leave and pulls him inside. "It's fine, stay," he says, "Besides, it's pouring now. You can't go back out there. You'll get soaked." 

He’s right. In the last few minutes, the rain had finally started coming down. The rain’s coming down in earnest now, falling in diagonal stripes that rattle against the window and leave streaks of racing droplets along the panes. Connor’s still hovering in the doorway with Oliver’s hand on his arm, but Oliver murmurs, “Please,” and Connor lets himself get pulled inside. 

Oliver leads him over to the couch, his fingers gentle around his wrist, and before Connor knows it, there's a mug of hot cocoa in his hands and a blanket around his shoulders. Oliver settles down next to him, close enough that he can feel his warmth even through the thick cloth. "Is something wrong?" Oliver asks, "You look... pale."

Suddenly, all of Connor's exhaustion catches up with him, and he feels very cold, as if he had been out in the storm, with the pouring rain seeping through his clothes and settling onto his skin. He tries not to block out the last time he showed up at Oliver's door like this, trembling and a mess, with blood and dirt under his nails.

"Have you ever gotten pulled into something you know is wrong? But by the time you realize, it’s too late, and you can’t get out," Connor asks, avoiding Oliver’s eyes. "Then the lies start, piling up in every part of your life, but if you tell the truth, you’d lose everything. So you tell lie after lie, and it’s slowly eating you alive.”

"Wait," Oliver asks, "is this about the drugs?"

Connor laughs, harsh and loud in the ensuing silence. What was he thinking, telling Oliver about everything? He had been working to repair Oliver's trust in him, but this thing between them was still so fragile and new that even the faintest breath would shatter it. 

"Never mind," Connor says. "Pretend I didn't say anything." 

"Connor," Oliver says, "If there's something wrong, I can't just ignore it. Talk to me. What do you need?"

"Can we just stay like this?" Connor asks, burrowing further into his cocoon. Oliver's eyes soften, and he drapes his arm over Connor's shoulders and pulls him closer. Oliver turns on a movie, but all of Connor's attention is on the warmth emanating from Oliver's side, and the fingers running gently through his hair. The rhythmic movement soothes him to sleep, and before he knows it, Oliver's shaking him awake. 

"Connor? It's late," he says, "why don't we go to bed?" 

It's strange, Connor thinks, sleeping in Oliver's bed. He's done it before, on movie nights, but it's always been accompanied by the promise of sex in the morning. This feeling of sleeping together, with no other expectations but comfort, is new to him. 

But once Connor's in bed, all thoughts of sleep desert him. He can't stop listening to the gentle pitter patter of rain on the roof, and watching droplets slide down the window in the moonlight. Behind him, Oliver sighs softly in his sleep, sending a rush of affection though Connor's chest. He hadn't thought that the other man would become so important to him, but if pressed, he would deny it with his last breath, even if the whole world could see how he felt. 

But this secret he was keeping could end everything. He didn't want to imagine Oliver's face when he revealed the extent of his lies, let alone that he was an accessory to the murder of his professor's husband, that he had looked Oliver in the eye and lied again, even after promising the truth. What would he even say? Hey, Oliver, I helped kill a man. That's a great conversation opener. 

"He's going to find out eventually," a voice in his brain argues. 

“Whose side are you even on?” Connor thinks back. 

It ignores him. "The truth always comes out. Would you rather he find out by watching you get arrested and carted off to jail?"

"I'd rather not go to jail at all," Connor retorts. Having conversations with himself, if that's not a sign his sanity's slipping, then he doesn't know what is. 

Oliver shifts behind him. "You're thinking too loud," he says, burrowing his face into Connor's neck. "Go to sleep." 

As Oliver sleepily snuggles closer, Connor thinks, "He deserves better. He deserves the truth." As if agreeing, the rain outside slows to a quiet drizzle. Connor drifts asleep to the feeling of Oliver's legs tangled with his, Oliver's warm breath tickling his neck. It's the best night's sleep he's had in weeks. 

The next morning dawns bright and clear, and Connor knows exactly what he has to do. "Oliver?" Connor asks. He can feel the adrenaline pumping through his veins, and his heartbeat thumps fast and loud in his chest, almost drowning out everything else. It's now or never. 

"I have something to tell you."


End file.
